


If I could trade mistakes

by newtypeshadow



Category: Almost Human
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 10:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13545129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newtypeshadow/pseuds/newtypeshadow
Summary: No matter what Dorian says, huddling for warmth on the wrong side of the Wall while murderbots roam the streets is the absolute worst time for Detective John Kennex to go to sleep.





	If I could trade mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Trade Mistakes" by Panic! At The Disco.
> 
> Written for the [February Ficlet Challenge](https://starwarswritingalliance.tumblr.com/post/170236315539/february-ficlet-challenge), Day 1 prompt: [Huddling for warmth](https://starwarswritingalliance.tumblr.com/post/170373593607/ficlet-challenge-prompt-1). (I've been excited for this event all January! You should totally participate if you like writing—it's for all fandoms, and original fics sound welcome too! ^_^)

“This was a mistake,” John admits into the warmth of Dorian’s neck.

“Which ‘this’ do you mean, John?” Dorian asks from beneath him. “If it’s lying on top of me to use my thermal regulator to raise your dangerously low body temperature, then I must disagree with you.”

“You always disagree with me.”

“I disagree with you on that point too, John.”

John snorts. “Yeah, of course you do.”

They’re quiet for a moment as John tries not to be lulled into much-needed sleep by the heat emanating from the top of Dorian’s body, from the subtle rocking of his chest as he simulates breath, from the strange sense of safety he feels being held there. He and Dorian are lying chest to chest to keep John’s core warm. John’s hands are stuffed in the sides of Dorian’s jacket; now that he can feel his fingers again, he doesn’t need to sandwich them between their bodies.

John knows Dorian doesn’t need to sleep and is watching, scanning, protecting him tirelessly, but those murderbots outside are newer models and Dorian’s usually at his charging station by now. John can’t let down his guard, not here. He can’t have led another partner into an ambush. They’re not safe in this abandoned corner office, across the street from Dr. Vaughn’s secret lab, hiding behind a trashed oak desk with barely a sliver for him and Dorian to look out the tall windows from while praying nothing’s looking back in. They’re on the wrong side of the Wall, for godssakes, and Vaughn’s murderbots own the streets outside. John can’t fall asleep here. He _can’t._ He has to…stay…alert…

“I meant coming over the Wall,” John says after what he hopes is only a few seconds, but may have been longer. He mentally shakes himself awake. “It was a mistake.” They should’ve notified the Watch Commander of the breach and had him send someone in to follow Vaughn. Or shot a tracker on Vaughn and come back in the morning with one of Rudy’s gadgets to track the frequency. Or questioned the guy who brought Vaughn over instead of knocking him out and leaving him for the Wall guards to find and question. Or any number of things Dorian had suggested at the time—any number of smarter options than following Vaughn themselves with no plan and no backup and no way of communicating with the precinct once they crossed over.

Dorian huffs, the sudden movement jolting John’s perch. John tenses reflexively, but Dorian’s steel arms around him and hands on his back keep him steady more effectively than John himself ever could. Still, John grumbles out of reflex. Dorian acts so pointedly human when John frustrates him, as if trying to speak a language John will understand since words aren’t doing the trick. “Go to sleep, John,” Dorian says. He shifts his hands and bleeds heat into the muscles around John’s shoulder-blades, kneading loose the ever-present knots there.

Despite himself, John feels himself relaxing. “Don’t,” he snaps—at both of them. “I’m not sleeping here.”

“It’s okay, John,” Dorian says gently. “You can sleep. I’ll protect you.”

“You need to conserve power—you can’t watch all night and still make it to the guard station in the morning if we have to fight our way there.”

“If we’re careful we won’t have to fight, and power won’t be a problem.”

Dorian’s tone rankles; John is _always_ careful, okay? “Don’t be stupid,” he snaps. The street are crawling with enemy bots.

“Don’t be stubborn,” Dorian shoots back.

“I’m not—”

“Go to sleep,” Dorian says again, more firmly. As if he knows John is about to argue, he continues, “I’ll take first watch.”

John pauses and considers. “Okay. On the off chance I can actually fall asleep in this hellhole, wake me up in two hours.”

“Four hours.”

“Two.”

“John.”

“ _Dorian_. Two hours.”

“Alright, John. Two hours.” Dorian pats him like he’s a child.

John is suspicious, but also exhausted, and cocooned in just the right amount of warmth—a warmth belonging to someone he trusts with his life, and who smells like linen and metal and (strangely) lavender, and something comforting John associates with home. Still, John tries to stay awake.

He _needs_ to stay awake.

He doesn’t.


End file.
